


It Hurts Me (To See You Hurting)

by jhoom



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (But mostly hurt), (probably) inaccurate medical procedures, Angst, Captain America: The First Avenger, Cauterizing a wound, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Bottom Bucky, Implied Top Steve, Injured Bucky, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25093174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhoom/pseuds/jhoom
Summary: It's a routine mission, but it goes to shit quickly enough when they're ambushed in the middle of the woods and Bucky gets injured. It's up to Steve to make sure he makes it back to base in one piece.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 151
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	It Hurts Me (To See You Hurting)

**Author's Note:**

> here's another angsty stucky ficlet as I work through my [Bad Things Happen](https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/) bingo squares! prompts this time are: cauterizing a wound; ambush; shaking & shivering
> 
> please keep in mind i am not at all a medical professional, so i apologize for any medical inaccuracies :/ like steve, i only understand the gist of what is entailed with cauterizing a wound, not how to actually do it or what the recovery for it would entail, etc
> 
> come bug me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) about stucky

Steve thought they were alone in the woods, weaving their way back to base. It was a quick mission, one that the two of the handled with ease, and now they were going back for some much earned rest. Steve had every intention of sleeping for the next six hours after fucking Bucky for the first two of them. 

It was the mistake of thinking about that future comfort instead of their current danger that did them in. They were bumping shoulders and quietly smiling at each other with too loud footsteps and laughs, and then Steve was scrambling to get Bucky behind his shield when the bullets started thundering around them. 

And then it was a shitshow when ten men sprung out on them. 

Steve took the brunt of it, by both his and the enemy’s design. He was the real target, the real threat, and he happily drew their fire.

Bucky’s one helluva a sniper, so much so that Steve’s ridiculously proud of him and has never once felt ill at ease knowing Bucky’s the one covering his six. There’s no sniping when you’re in a dirty clearing in the woods, tripping over branches and scrambling through trees, with no damn room to even take your rifle out much less set it up and aim it. 

In the end, it was Steve and Bucky left standing.

Until it was just Steve.

"Fuck," Bucky hissed as he collapsed to the ground. He held his thigh, his hands a mess of red as he struggled to put pressure on it.

"What happened?" Steve was at his side in an instant. He wasn't sure what to do, how to help, and his hands twitched above Bucky's helplessly.

"Shot," he grit out. "Went straight through."

Oh god… 

Now that he knew there wasn't one but two wounds to worry about, he set to work tearing off a piece of Bucky's shirt to try and bind it.

"Too much blood," Bucky argued when he saw what Steve was doing. Blood gushed between his fingers, painted the snow red. "Not gonna make it back to base like this."

And  _ no _ , that was completely unacceptable. 

"Shut up," Steve growled. He wasn't even gonna entertain that thought. 

He grabbed a knife and pilfered a lighter off a dead soldier. 

"This is going to hurt," he warned as he started to heat the metal blade. He grabbed one of Bucky’s hands and squeezed it gently, the only comfort he could offer.

Bucky's eyes, otherwise a little glassy, went wide. "You gonna…?" He swallowed and nodded. "It's fine, do it."

He had to tear the hole wider in Bucky's pants to make room. He couldn't meet Bucky's eye, worried with what he'd see, and instead focused on the task at hand. How many times had Bucky helped him when he needed it? He could be strong for Bucky now, it was only fair. 

Steve only knew how to do this in theory. He'd never seen it done, never had the process described to him in any detail, but the alternative was Bucky bleeding out in the middle of nowhere, so damn if he wasn't going to try. Keep the blade hot but not so hot it glowed. Careful where he presses down and how long. Stop the bleeding, but don’t do more damage in the process. He could do this, his serum-infused body gifted with a steady hand that didn’t shake even though he was  _ so fucking scared _ . 

He  _ would _ do this. He had to.

When he was ready, Steve almost put the blade to the bloody wound and pulled back. 

"This is gonna hurt,” Steve whispered in apology, hoping Bucky would know he wouldn’t do this if he didn’t have to. It wasn’t  _ him _ that had shot Bucky, but here he was, hurting him to save him. “Don't scream, okay? I don't know if there's more of them. I can’t… I can’t save you if I have to fight— "

Bucky took a shaky breath. "I got it, go."

Even if he was ready for it, Bucky jerked once the hot metal hit his broken skin. His fingers dug into Steve’s back and he made an awful noise, deep in his throat and rattling out despite his best efforts to keep it in. He ended up biting down on the meat of Steve’s shoulder to shut himself up, to keep the pain inside where it was safe and wouldn’t alert every Nazi in a ten-mile radius. The bite hurt, the constant, sharp pressure of it.  _ Of course _ it hurt, but Steve endured it without complaint; whatever Steve felt, it was way worse for Bucky, he had no right to begrudge him this. 

“Don’t worry,” Steve soothed as he worked. “I got ya, Buck. I’ll get you outta here, no problem. Not gonna let this happen again, either, I promise. Gonna take real good care of you. Gonna get you fixed up, have them laugh at my shitty nursin’ skills at base, and then I’ll get you in bed.”

“Gonna have a scar,” Bucky muttered with the same coherence Steve usually associated with a night of drinking. “Dames like scars, don’t they?” 

Steve kissed his brow. “Sure do, Buck. Got the front, gotta do the exit wound now.”

Bucky tried to roll over to give Steve better access, but the movement was slow and uncoordinated; Steve helped him, did his best to make sure he was comfortable (and wasn’t that a joke) before starting the process all over again. Too exhausted, Bucky barely flinched and only whined quietly into the crook of his arm. 

The skin was an angry black and red mess by the time Steve had managed to stop the bleeding. It looked even worse against the paleness of Bucky’s unblemished skin, the contrast jarring and making Steve’s heart wrench. But it’d been enough, it would get him back to base and into the hands of actual professionals who wouldn’t stop at survival. 

They’d make Bucky whole again, in a way Steve just couldn’t, and then Steve would dutifully spend the rest of the war making sure Bucky  _ stayed _ whole. 

The snow started while he was gently wrapping Bucky’s leg. It wasn’t much, only a snowflake or two at first that warned of an approaching storm more than anything, but each carried the same weight as a gunshot, each brought its own warning of  _ get back get Bucky back go go go _ . 

With an urgency he hasn’t felt since Azzano, he realized he’d have to carry Bucky back. 

“You ready?” he asked, already trying to figure out the best way to do this. Over his shoulder would be easiest, but that would probably hurt Bucky’s leg. Maybe if he— 

“I can’t stop shaking,” Bucky said, teeth chattering. What had started as a slight tremor is a full-body shiver that wouldn’t stop, not even when Steve put his hands on his shoulders to steady him. “Can’t… can’t…. stop…”

“You’re going into shock,” Steve said and hoped half his worry didn’t come through. 

“Oh,” Bucky said. He clutched himself with his jaw clenched, like that’d do anything to stop. 

Just ‘oh’, an easy acceptance of their shitty luck. It worried Steve more. 

“Fucking hell,” he grunted and looked around. One of the dead soldiers had a thick wool coat, one that was mercifully devoid of blood or other unsavory fluids. Steve never much cared for looting dead bodies, though he never objected when the other soldiers did it. Now here he was, desperately working limp arms from a jacket to save his best friend from dying. 

Guess he’d have to rethink his opinion on the whole thing. 

Steve wrapped the jacket around Bucky, making him keep his arms cradled to his chest instead of working them into the sleeves. “Here ya go, Buck. Keep you a little warmer, yeah?” 

Bucky nodded. He looked about five seconds away from passing out. Steve wasn’t a doctor, had no idea if he should or even  _ could _ let Bucky sleep right now; all he knew is the thought of Bucky closing his eyes  _ terrified _ him because what if he never opened them again? There was a lot Steve could handle, but he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to stand losing Bucky. 

“I’m gonna carry you, okay? If I hurt your leg, you tell me. If you need me to—” 

“Just get on with it,” Bucky muttered, the words shaken out of him by another convulsion. 

Right. 

He pulled Bucky close so they were chest to chest. He wrapped Bucky’s good leg around his waist and did his best to support the other one well below the burnt and broken flesh. He was going to tear Hydra apart for doing this to Bucky, he swore to god he’d burn every last base to the ground in payment for them getting even a drop of blood. 

Soon they were off, with Steve running awkwardly through the woods. He clutched Bucky tight to him and prayed it’d be enough. He could keep him warm enough, he could get back fast enough, he could make use of this stupid body of him that’d failed him in the clearing but would  _ not _ fail him now. 

Bucky’s leg was still wrapped around him, a good sign, and he had Steve’s jacket clutched to him in an iron grip; he shook and convulsed nonstop, like his body couldn’t settle. He hadn’t passed out yet, thank fuck.

“You with me?” he’d ask whenever the silence got to be too much. Steve couldn’t let more than a few minutes pass without checking in, without  _ hearing _ something to soothe the anxiety pumping through him with every heartbeat. 

“Til the end of the line,” was always Bucky’s answer, two parts exhaustion and one part fond exasperation. 

It was more than enough to give him hope. 

Luckily his uniform spoke for itself, made him recognizable even from a distance. The men on watch didn’t protest as he ran past the barricade into camp. Instead they yelled for help. 

“Captain America’s got a man down! Send a medic!”

It was its own type of agony to let Bucky go, but he needed medical care more than he needed Steve (though from the petulant look in Bucky’s eyes, he might have disagreed). Steve stood back, hovered as they set to work, until a nurse firmly lead him out of the tent. 

“You did good,” she said not unkindly. “Probably saved his life, but you gotta let us work to make sure he’s out there in fighting form again, you understand?” 

Steve imagined his mother had given that look to plenty of people over the years, and the resemblance did something funny to his insides that made him obey without protest. She was right, after all. Steve was good for punching, shooting, running, all that grunt work; the doctors and nurses, they were the ones who could help now. 

He was useless, and it hurt. 

Instead of pacing uselessly outside the med tent, he paced uselessly outside his own. He gave his mission report like that, trying to spend the energy his adrenaline-laced blood kept pumping through his veins. In some respects he was thankful—thankful his superior officers indulged him, thankful his body kept him going when he’d been so tired before the ambush, thankful he hadn’t been given any bad news yet—and in other ways he so wanted to crawl onto his cot and sleep until this was all over. Time was so  _ slow _ .

No, he wanted to crawl onto  _ Bucky’s _ cot and bury his face in the familiar, musky scent. The impulse was so strong he stopped in his tracks and stared longingly at their shared tent. If there was anything that could trick him into sleeping, it was definitely wrapping himself in Bucky’s sleeping bag. 

“Captain?” 

His head whipped around so fast it actually stung, but he ignored it. 

“Is Bucky—is Sergeant Barnes—is he—?”

“He’s fine,” the terrified soldier blurted out. “He’s resting. I was told to tell you that you should let him sleep but—” Steve stormed by him towards the med tent, and the soldier’s shoulders slumped as he muttered, “But I figured you’d do that anyway.” 

The nurses shushed the doctors who tried to send him right back out, a knowing look in their eyes. Bucky had a small, private corner all to himself, and Steve planned on taking full advantage of that privacy. 

Bucky lay there, pale except for the bruises under his eyes. His leg was properly bandaged, he had an IV dripping into him, and he’d mercifully stopped shaking. The meager heat from the tent wasn’t enough, though, and he was wrapped in three blankets to help keep the chill from settling in. He was asleep, the light snore enough for Steve to know it was a deep sleep, and he started his vigil by kneeling by his cot. 

“Don’t you scare me like that again,” he whispered. He shot a look over his shoulder to make sure they really were alone, then took Bucky’s hand in his. Barely the ghost of a touch, he drew Bucky’s knuckles across his lips before settling a kiss there. “You’re not allowed to get shot anymore, alright?” 

Whether knocked out from pain, drugs, or exhaustion, Bucky didn’t answer. No sass about how he sure as fuck hadn’t tried to get shot the first time and definitely wouldn’t be trying it again, no teasing Steve for being sappy, just the steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept. 

It was the best answer Steve could have hoped for.


End file.
